


Together in Electric Dreams

by harreloujah



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, x-factor era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:26:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harreloujah/pseuds/harreloujah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a humid summer night when Harry discovers Louis is scared of lightning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together in Electric Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> my first ever post on here, weyhey :- ) thank you for reading, y'lovely jubblies, and i hope you like it! .xx

**04:27**.The numbers, red and bullying, glare into Harry’s wince from his bedside table through layers upon layers of darkness. The bedroom is hazy in heat and it idles about his body, drawing his bare skin sticky with sweat. The rain taps against the window in heavy beats and it almost sounds like it’s a thief in the night trying to break through.

He and the other boys arrived at the bungalow four mornings ago, and the air has been thick with humidity ever since. Harry’s thankful for the rare bout of English sunshine during the day - it’s a welcome excuse to spend his hours in the pool; the water reviving his parched skin with blasts of a fresh, blue chill. He, Niall and Louis have handstand competitions in the shallow end, with Liam floating on the spread of his chest and judging the contest to make sure no one is cheating (although Louis is still adamant he’d dunked underwater the same time as the other two on the first round). They only leave the water to gather cans of fizzy pop and ice lollies from the kitchen, or to grapple with Zayn on his sunbed until he’s thrown into the pool with a satisfying enough splash. It’s the night-time when Harry finds himself resenting the dense heat (and his mum for not installing air conditioning); after the boys have shuffled off to their respective guest bedrooms, exhaling their good-nights through yawns. That’s when Harry has to retreat to his own bed, where his sheets are itchy on clammy skin, and he lays restless and agitated for hours as the warmth weighs on him. With his brain far too alert for such a ridiculous hour, thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts bubble up and boil over within his skull and leave him pleading for sleep to overtake him. It’s just…  
  _It’s just_ everything has happened so quickly, and it feels like he’s barely had time to catch his breath - never mind figure out what the hell is happening to him. It only feels like a blink of the eye since he’d been ushered back on stage, his face blotchy and red with tear-stains, to be told that he had actually made it through to judges’ houses. And now he’s here: at the bungalow with the four boys he was put into a group with and, as cliché as he knows it is, he already feels like he’s known them a lifetime. Each of them has this vibrant personality that is miles apart from the next boy’s, and yet they all slot together like a jigsaw puzzle. Harry loves it – he loves _them_ – and it’s urged the kind of excitement that pangs behind your sternum and settles there expelling floods of delight. But amidst the throngs of enthusiasm lays a tiny voice telling him _it’s all too good to be true_. That he’ll wake up from whatever masochistic dream this is or _fail_ and that have to go back to serving people freshly baked bread on weekends, pretending none of this was ever real and only sing at the occasional wedding reception.

And then there’s _the other thing_ – the _other thing_ that keeps him awake the most, and it’s not the heat and it’s not the worry. It’s the blue eyes that are like blades on ice-skates slicing the ice as they go skirting upon it. It’s the laugh like a chiming bell that still sits singing in his ears hours after it rang out. And it’s the curves of a tanned waist dipping at the bottom of a spine and then bowing into hips and thighs and _arse_. It’s the pure want that, even in this unforgiving spell of heat, Harry’s still wishing for that _other thing_ to be here with him. Against him. Skin on skin atop of him and lips hungry and wet and swollen together and nails leaving red-raw crescents indenting his throat.                             Harry’s got it bad for Louis. He knows he does. He knows he does and how could he not when Louis is just so… _Louis_. He even likes the way his name dances at the tip of his tongue: seductive and snaking between his lips as he rolls it out like a breath of fire.  
Harry spends a great deal of his nights with a bruising lip caught between his teeth as he tugs at himself, with a string of needy whimpers pitching from his throat. He imagines the ghost of Louis’ tongue at the base of his cock, locked fingers gripping at Harry’s hips as he sucks into his entirety, until the final surge envelopes him in pure dizzying shudders as he comes into his own hand. And then there he is: thumped back into reality and wiping semen off his palm with a Kleenex, and wishing Louis was there to lick it off instead.

Harry sighs into the darkness, and is immediately annoyed at himself for being such a yearning lump of hormones. Louis is only three doors down and Harry _knows_ he could easily tread down the hall and slink into the empty space of his bed and taste the saltiness of the sweat glazing Louis’ lips. At least, he _thinks_ he knows he could. Definitely maybe, anyway.   
He’s seen the way Louis bites the edge of his lip when Harry emerges from the depths of the water, and how Niall will wiggle his eyebrows at Zayn when they curl around each other on the sofa. He knows there’s a reason why Louis will rest his chin on Harry’s shoulder and link his arms around his waist when he watches him slicing up vegetables for dinner, and stays with _him_ even though the other boys are all in the next room playing poker. And how, just last night, Louis had slurred “ _you’re my favourite_ ” under a hot vodka-infused breath against the curve of his neck when all the other boys were too drunk to pay attention.  
It may be blind, horny optimism talking, but Harry can feel something brewing between them and he isn’t quite sure what to do with it. He’s only been with one boy, after all, and that was just quickened tosses of the wrist beneath sheets at a party, shortly followed by a vow to never speak of it again. It wasn’t even that long ago he realised he much preferred pornography involving men writhing against the feel of another man’s tongue at his balls than he did watching women get eaten out. Harry doesn’t even know what type of porn Louis might watch: it could be anything from twinks to women with overly-large plastic tits – he could be totally off the mark and he doesn’t know. Plus, it’s far too early to shake things up with a confession of “ _I want to come on your thighs_ ” when they’ve only just been put together as a band.

A flash of silver coats the room in a dazzling light and Harry shoots to sit up in his bed as it leaves quicker than it comes and he’s left in darkness again. He hears the thunder growling outside ominously, like a wildcat, just moments after and he slumps back into his pillow. The humidity had been simmering away the whole week; building up and building up to this point when the clouds finally seize with thick rain and pins of lightning striking into the earth.

Harry fidgets on his bed for the next ten minutes – stretching his legs, curling them back up into his body, rolling onto his side – but he just cannot get comfortable. His bones feel like brittle twigs beneath his muscle, and they’re smarting with tired frustration. Lightning keeps flashing outside and turning his room metallic and it’s definitely not making his pursuit for sleep any easier. He groans a fizzling “ _for fuck’s sake_ ” into the ceiling staring blankly back at him, and that’s when it comes:

“Harry?”

The voice is muffled through the wooden door, but it still makes Harry sit back up because he can recognise that sing-song tone anywhere now. Before he can even respond, the door is sidling open and Harry smiles. The edges of Louis’ figure are picked apart and lit up from the streams of yellowing light from the corridor behind him – the same light that’s spilling onto the floor as he pushes the door further. His front is still painted in darkness, but Harry can tell that his face is scrunched together in his deliberate quietness.                        “You awake?”

“Yeah.”

Louis slides into the room on Harry’s approval, and his bare feet pad across the laminate flooring towards the bed – tap-tap-tapping as they go. Harry feels the mattress swallow in Louis’ body as he sits down at his feet, and Harry doesn’t miss the opportunity to appreciate how good Louis looks in nothing but Topman boxers as his eyes adjust back to the darkness.             “Were you just standing outside my door ‘til I made a noise, or something?”

“Well, I didn’t wanna wake you up, did I?”

“Yeah, still… Little bit creepy, Lou,” Harry taunts through a curling, slanted smile, but he definitely likes the idea of a semi-nude Louis pressing his ear against the door and thinking about Harry in bed. Even if it is just wondering if he’s asleep; he’s horny and he’ll take anything he can get, really.

Louis chuckles a little at that, and the sound tickles at Harry’s skin. “Yeah, it is a bit, actually. But definitely beats hovering over your bed when you’re fast on.”

Harry doesn’t respond because the lightning does it for him as it cuts from the sky again. In the brief cast of silver light, he notices Louis flinching beneath it. He also notices how the light accentuates sharp cheekbones and makes his eyelashes look like they’ve caught snowflakes, but that’s beside the point.

“Louis… By any chance, are you in here because you’re scared of lightning?” He’s grinning now through his words because he can’t help it. Louis is adorable.

Louis furrows his brow and forms his lips into an ‘o’ shape like he’s been scandalised. “How very dare you!” But Harry still grins into him until Louis drops into his own impish little smile. “Okay, maybe I did. But I swear if you tell the other lads, I’ll wear your dick as a scarf. They’re all buggers and they’ll never let me live it down.”

Harry sucks in a laugh, and scoots to the bottom of the bed. He wraps Louis up in a hug, and he doesn’t care that their skin is tacking together and his body doubles in heat where it’s touching Louis. He doesn’t care because they’re both only wearing boxers and he likes how Louis feels wrapped up in him, and he could _so easily_ just—

“Hey now, Harold. I hope you’re not trying to take advantage of me in my vulnerable state.”

Harry brings his chin to rest on the frame of his shoulder, noticing that the suggestion of chlorine is still stuck at his skin and entwining with the scent of tea-tree shampoo, and he can’t help the smirk that’s edged onto his lips.

“Yeah, like you’d be complaining.” Maybe it’s the fact he’s had less than ten hours sleep in the past week. Or maybe it’s that he hasn’t had a wank tonight. But, whatever it is, the words leak from behind his teeth without any consideration of what he’s saying; his voice lowered in the quiet and knotted with rasp.

Lightning bursts through again before Harry can even catch Louis’ reaction, but he’s thankful for it when Louis jerks in fright and cuddles further into Harry’s body as he does. Louis’ head is on his chest now – knocking against it as Harry shakes with the laughter rippling through him. Louis scowls up at him through the dark eyelashes framing the blue.  “Don’t say a word, Styles.”

“ _Heyyy_ , what would I even say? Definitely not that you’re a big wimp, or that I’ve never met anyone past the age of five that’s afraid of storms, or—”

Louis bumps his forehead against Harry’s chest. “Shut it, Curly.”

Harry plants a clumsy kiss atop of Louis’ bed-tousled hair, before he’s lifting himself from the mattress and pulling Louis with him. “C’mon, I’m not standing for this.”

“What’re you even on about, Hazza?” Louis’ voice is mixed in a cocktail of fondness and mock-irritation and, even though he’s pulling a face at it, he’s still letting Harry hold his hand as he’s pulled into the hallway.

“You’re meant to be the brave one,” Harry throws an accusing look behind his shoulder. “I’m not having it that you’re actually a massive wuss when it comes to shitty weather.”

They reach the back door of the house, and that’s when Louis’ feet glue to the ground and his body stiffens, but Harry unlocks it regardless. The door is a full length of glass, and the view behind it is blurred with blemishes of dripping rain cascading down the span of it. With his body slick in clammy sweat, Harry’s craving the sensation of the rain licking his skin clean and cool and he doesn’t care that he’s half-naked – doesn’t even bother putting on shoes – and he bounds into the garden.

The rainfall beats upon his chest as he opens his arms up to the clouds; much like he’s making a grand declaration into the heavens. The droplets caress his milky skin – kissing at his neck and his collarbones before spilling down the strip of his body. His hair is knotting in wetness, and he can feel his boxers cling to his crotch as they entwine with the rain. If he’s going to get Louis over his fear of lightning, he’s damn well going to do it looking like a pornstar.

“C’mere, then!” Harry shouts through to the door. Louis stands there, indulging in his own glower – arms folded tight across his chest.

“I don’t bloody think so, Styles. I’m not getting electrocuted for the sake of looking like I’m in a bad boyband video.”

Pornstar, bad boyband – what’s the difference, really.

“Electrocuted? _Really_ , Lou?”

“Go bugger yourself, pube-head.”             

That’s it.

 The puddles gathered on the stone flooring clap against the beat of Harry’s feet as he races back towards the door. He hurdles into Louis, forcing a wheeze from his chest as he gathers him in his arms. Harry’s definitely not strong enough to be carrying a man two years older than himself, and it sends him stumbling backwards into the garden. Louis’ shouting all kinds of profanities into his ear, but there’s a barking laugh scoring through him, so Harry guesses he can’t mind all that much. The soles of his bare feet are thumping in pain now; slamming against the floor as he tries to stay vertical with Louis weighing into him. But the floor is slippery in its dampness and, no, Harry is _definitely_ not strong enough to be carrying a man two years older than himself, and his feet trip over one another and he collapses to the floor with a lurch of moaning pain slamming through him.

Louis’ on top of him, thick thighs straddling his waist, and he’s lurched forward in a fit of laughter – his forehead resting against Harry’s shoulder. His crotch is brushing against Harry’s stomach as he shakes in his giggling, and Harry becomes very aware that Louis’ only wearing boxers at the feel of it.

“You absolute twat! You fucking deserved that!” Louis howls through his laughs, and Harry can’t even try to pout because he really, _really_ likes the way Louis’ eyes crinkle when he’s caught up in mirth.

“Shurruuup,” Harry moans, and he shifts his torso up so his weight is resting on his elbows. “I think I’ve broken a bone in me arse…”

“You _are_ a bone in the arse.”

“Good one.”

Louis’ laughs are settling now, although he’s still releasing the odd hiccupping chuckle through the smirk etched upon his mouth. He rests his cheek against Harry’s collarbone, and Harry can feel long eyelashes tickling at his jawbone when he looks up to him.

“So, then, Genius; explain how laying on the floor piss-wet through is meant to stop me shitting a brick when it’s lightning?”

Harry pulls his shoulders into a lazy shrug. “I dunno… Face your fears and all that, in’t it?” He drifts one of his arms around Louis; settling his hand at the small of his back and rubbing his thumb in small circles. “And anyway, you’ve been out here like two minutes and you seem right as rain already.”

He feels a smile pull at Louis’ lips against his chest. “If that’s meant to be a pun, you’re an even bigger idiot than I took you for. Anyway, I’m only alright ‘cause I know if I get struck, you’re going down with me.”

Louis lifts his head from Harry’s collar, and the tips of their noses brush through the closeness. Harry presses his lips together, and he can’t even feel the bruise that’s probably already spreading on his arse anymore because of the feline-like eyes, still searing blue in the darkness, consuming his own. A dense current of rain is beating upon the two of them like it’s pushing them together and Harry can feel Louis’ nipples pinch into hard peaks against his own chest as the cool wind grips at them. Harry’s breaths are shaky beneath Louis’ because he can almost taste the mouth he’s been so desperate to pursue.

“Bloody hell, you couldn’t be more obvious right now if you tried.” He’s teasing, but Louis’ voice has dropped into a whirring purr, and he’s so close now that Harry can feel his lips move against his own when he speaks. And he just _groans_ at it; a begging, impatient groan that he just can’t help, and the sheer desperation held in it triggers a light snicker from Louis. He’s clearly loving this. “Okay, maybe you could.”

                Louis’ lips trace Harry’s like a hummingbird’s feather – not pressing enough to be a kiss, just testing and tempting all at once and it’s liquid-gold against his mouth. Louis’ skin is bleached milk-white in the moonlight washing over him, and Harry slides his hands to grip at his thighs like Louis will disappear if he doesn’t hold on. The peach-fuzz hair on his legs tickle Harry’s palms and the way Louis’ ghosting over him should be nothing – nothing at all – but Harry can still feel the familiar warmth stirring between his hips and he wonders if Louis can feel him trembling. Louis moves slowly as he furthers against him – his lips wet with salted rain and his fingertips brushing at the hair curling at the nape of Harry’s neck – and he’s moving so _achingly_ slow like he’s afraid he’ll break him if he pushes too hard.

“Tell me.” Louis’ words are thick and assertive, and the breath of them sends a current of fizzing sparks coursing through Harry’s skin.

“Lou...”

“Tell me.”

“Louis, _please_.”

And then there he is. Where he was before, but harder and closed in on any specks of distance between them. It’s like a climax in the orchestra; a succession of ascending and descending notes coiling into one and slight breaths of harmonies and bellowing symphonies. His lips move against Harry’s purposefully, and it’s like every slippery drag upon his mouth is a painted stroke on a canvas. Harry sucks hard on Louis’ bottom lip and his nails graze down the length of his back, coercing his mouth to fall open with a whimper lost in the looming clouds. Harry’s tongue steals inside the parted lips offered to him, and Louis’ hands are completely tangled in his hair now. He kisses deep into his mouth until the only taste haunting him is _Louis Louis Louis_ and he’s wondering why they haven’t been doing this the whole time – how he could have been doing anything _but_ this.            Harry is white-hot where Louis is: his lips and his waist and each and every strand of hair coiled around Louis’ fingertips – they just spread in this pure _heat_ that’s like bottled sun against him but he still needs more.

Louis groans when Harry pulls away. His pupils are blown wide and are like flares against the flush sweeping his cheeks. “ _Jesus_ , Haz.”

Harry’s grinning inanely up at him, and he knows how ridiculous he must look with hair wild from tugging and lips slicked red. His hands grip at Louis’ bicep, and he pushes himself from the ground, and it’s only a swift flipping motion and he’s on top. Louis gasps slightly at the cold of it when his back knocks upon the pavement, and Harry adjusts himself so the thighs he’s so desperate to bite are framing his hips. He crowds in on Louis – teeth scraping at his neck and his collarbone, rolling his hips into Louis’ as he does. Louis draws a shaking, hissing breath with each nip and suck flecked upon his skin and he arches his back so their bodies are flooded together. Louis’ grinding against his own movements – slow and lewd drags of his crotch, and they’re both so hard now. Their boxers have tented against their erections; the material, clingy and wet, clutches at their skin and every feel of Louis is shifting a raspy moan from Harry’s throat.

Harry nips at Louis’ earlobe, pulling slightly at the skin before he lets go. “I really fancy you,” he says, trying his hardest not to sound like the five-year-old-teenager he is. “I guess I can tell you that now, right?”

Louis chuckles – but it’s lower than before, like doses of caramel have been stirred through it. “Right.”     Louis drags his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip, before mumbling into his mouth, “I really fancy you too.” And Harry has no idea how he’s managed to make that sound so hot, but he has and now he’s licking inside his mouth like he was made for kissing.

“God, Lou. I need to…” His voice is croaky against heavy breaths. “I need to touch more of you.”

Louis tilts his chin into a small nod, and Harry lowers his body against him. He moves slowly across Louis – wanting to taste every inch of skin available to him. He presses biting kisses at his chest and his ribs, and smirks against him when he hears Louis’ heart beat quicken when he rolls his tongue across the nipple caught gently between his teeth.

Louis arches from the floor a little when Harry finally touches him. He massages the outlines of a thick length visible through sticking boxers, and sucks a bruise onto the cut of his hip and Harry watches him writhing at it from beneath the fan of his eyelashes. But he needs more; he needs to see Louis’ skin flush in pink and his lips bitten with the restraint to cry out Harry’s name into the sleepy air. Harry licks at a drop of rain slipping down Louis’ hipbone, before fingering the waistband of his boxers. Louis pushes his hips into the air a little, as Harry pulls the material to his thighs. His cock bobs at its release, before settling heavy against his stomach and Harry sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of it.

“You have a really nice dick,” Harry says, without even meaning to, but Louis laughs at it anyway and lifts his torso to rest on his elbows.

 “Bloody hell, Haz. You really are on a whole new level of charmer.”

Harry grins up at him; the tip of his cock plush and hard against his lips. He pushes the flat of his tongue along the underside of Louis’ cock, and drags it along the length of him slow and burning. Louis whimpers at the heat of his breath and his mouth against him – his own lower lip caught between his teeth – and doesn’t even move when a bolt of lightning punctures the clouds. Harry lifts his head, his mouth sliced into a wide grin.

“Heyyy, my plan worked. You didn’t even flinch,” and he feels proud as punch even though Louis is scowling into him now.

“Fucking hell, Harry – now is _really_ not the time to be—”

His words catch in his throat as Harry bobs down and stretches his lips around Louis, and his hips jerk into him at the warm gratification. He’s slow at first – careful and unsure and feeling painfully inexperienced. But Louis’ moans are all airy and husky at the feel of him, and it’s like silk upon silk so Harry quickens his pace. The bitterness of precome hangs on his tongue when he licks around the tip, wet and hot, and he works his fist where his mouth hasn’t reached. He sucks Louis deeper, hollowing in his cheeks, and he hums appreciatively against him when Louis puffs another panting profanity.

Harry keeps his eyes fixed on Louis; noting the way he shudders beneath him when Harry flicks his tongue like _that_ or the way he drags his fingernails across his own chest when his balls are tugged _just so_ with a hard suck at his tip. Louis tries to watch Harry work on him, but his eyes are cloudy and weak and keep disappearing under the translucent skin of his eyelids when moans collapse from his throat. Harry is absolutely aching now. His own cock is throbbing with each suck, pleading for gratification upon seeing Louis completely picked apart by his own self. He’s heavy and uncomfortable beneath his boxers and, with his free hand, he nudges beneath the material and outright gasps against Louis at the touch.

“N—no,” Louis stammers, bumping his knee against Harry’s arm. “No, don’t. I want to—I need to do it.”

So Harry picks at any dose of self-restraint he has, and pulls out of his own grip. He whimpers when he does and it’s pathetic and high-pitched, and he’s not completely sure if it’s because he’s absolutely desperate and he’s had to let go of himself, or if it’s stirring from Louis’ outright desire to make him come.

His fist is tighter around Louis now; his wrist twisting at the bottom of his shaft so quickly he’s beginning to ache, and the long, dragging sucks are wetter and deeper and making his throat twitch at the contact. Louis’ fingers snake through his curls, pulling at them as a warning. Harry feels Louis’ cock pulse in anticipation – but he doesn’t move away. He’s desperate to taste Louis – to have the flavour of his come etched on his palette. And Louis tenses up – hissing a “ _oh, Jesus- fuck_ ” when he comes. It hits the back of Harry’s throat and tears pleat in his eyelashes, but he swallows the thickness of it around Louis and licks the slit at his head clean while Louis rides it out.

“Being in a boyband is _weird_ ,” Louis comments finally, his words still wedged between heavy breaths. He’s grinning down at Harry; his fingertips idly smoothing down the curls that are springing up in every direction.

Harry smiles back and laughs even though his throat is stinging. “Yeah ‘tis a bit. D’you reckon Boyzone were up to this back in the day?”

“Most definitely, the horny sods. Regularly.”        And then Louis’ standing up – pulling Harry to his feet with him and shaking his boxers from his legs to sit neglected on the patio. “C’mon – it’s too fucking wet out here.”

And so they go from being _too fucking wet_ outside, to being _too fucking wet_ inside; Louis driving Harry into the wall of the too-small shower cubicle, after tugging away the last piece of clothing between the two of them, and his hands case his face as he crowds against him. Their bodies are flushed together, and Louis is nipping bruises onto his lips and every kiss is more urgent than the last. The water is painfully hot - Harry’s skin is pink and tender with it - and they’re both completely sheathed in sweating steam.

“Jesus Christ, Lou – I’m gonna come from just this.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he warns against his lips, and sinks down to his knees. He grips at Harry’s hips, his nails sharp and puncturing slices of red into him, and pulls him forward.

Harry inclines into the wall at Louis’ touch – bracing himself against the tiles as a wet, eager tongue drags across him.

“I want you to fuck me in the mouth,” Louis says beneath a whisper and, through the heavy beats of the shower, Harry barely hears it. His lips fall open against the head of his dick after one last lick of the flushed pink, compliant and willing, and he stares at Harry through the dark fan of his eyelashes - looking every bit the fucking _God_ Harry expected him to. Harry twists his fingers in Louis’ sopping hair and, after Louis mouths a “ _fuck me_ ” up at him, he slowly pushes his hips forward, urging his cock past Louis’ lips.

Louis’ eyes flutter shut as he sucks into him, moaning appreciatively, and velvety vibrations stir through Harry from the sounds Louis’ making against him. It incites him to roll his hips faster; still gripped at Louis’ hair to keep his head from jerking. He can feel the muscles in Louis’ throat constrict around him when he pushes in too deep, but he never pulls away. Harry can’t even think. Everything right now is the way Louis’ mouth feels on him – all warmth, and supple and obedient – and the arousal spearing inside of him and intensifying on each thrust. All he can remember is the lingering coils of Louis’ name, and it falls from bitten lips over and over with every deep suck and flicker of the tongue.

                And then a spell of familiar, gratifying warmth shudders through Harry, and he’s curling profanities from clenched teeth. Louis swallows it all around him and the feel of his squeezing throat sucking at where he is now too sensitive makes him tremble and he slides to the shower floor with Louis after he pulls out.

Louis grins into him as he catches his breath; his lips seeming to catch every wicked, smug thought swimming in his head. Strands of hair stick at his cheeks and forehead, and his body is bloomed with the most satisfying flush beneath the falls of hot water. Harry leans over and connects their mouths again, but it’s much gentler than before: all weak and shaky and sweet, but it still sends Harry beaming.

Strands of sunlight are now glancing into Harry’s room when they crawl into bed after a half-arsed job at drying themselves (Louis seemed to think a far more imperative use of the towel was to snap it at Harry’s naked bum, and make him squeal as he chased him around the bathroom with it spinning menacingly over his head.)  
Harry cradles into the nook of Louis’ neck – taking him all in and noticing how his skin is like cream when painted in the bright morning sun. Their bodies are still damp and stick at the bed-sheets, but their heat is pouring into each other and Harry breathes in on a happy sigh.

“Come to think of it…” Louis starts, his voice lifted in contemplation. His fingertips are idly tracing their initials onto Harry’s bare back, and the feathered touch is making Harry sleepy. “I’m not quite sure Boyzone were that into head-fucking. Seems more like a Westlife thing.”

Harry laughs, and they stay like that for a while: curled around each other and debating whether Ronan Keating has ever sucked a dick and, more importantly, if he’d be any good at it. They lapse into an easy silence, after Harry’s final claim that he’d rather be sucked off by the one with nice lips anyway. He eyes the window for a moment, admiring how the sky is brushed in bursts of grapefruit and cherries and he's thankful that it’s finally stopped raining – and, oh, that reminds him:

“So then, Louby-loo. Y’still scared of storms?”

Louis shrugs, and that roguish grin is playing on his lips again. “Nah, never was. Just seemed like a good excuse to get into your knickers.”

“You’re the absolute worst.” Harry lifts a kiss to Louis’ cheek, before resting his head back under his chin, and definitely doesn’t mention how he saw Louis flinch at each crack of lightning. “S’okay, it’ll be our little secret.”

He trails a finger on the imaginary line on Louis’ stomach, before resting it on his chest.

“I was thinking…” Harry murmurs – his lips hinting at the skin stretched across Louis’ collarbone. “How about One Direction?”

“What d’you mean?” Louis’ voice is slow in its sleepiness, like he’s teetering on the edge, and Harry wants to kiss him all over again.

“Like, for our name. ‘Cause… Well, we all auditioned on our own… With these big ideas and dreams of what we wanted to become. And now we’re in this group together – all of us, with the same big dreams and together we’re just—”

“Heading in one direction,” Louis finishes, and Harry can hear the soft smile purring into his voice. “One Direction. I like it. That’s why you’re my favourite.” Louis pulls Harry in with two fingers at his chin, and rewards him with a soft press of their lips.

The birds outside are cheeping a lullaby and it’s not long before it picks Louis apart and he drifts into slumber. His mouth, still pink in rawness, is parted just somewhat and Harry’s heartbeat is in rhythm to the gentle breaths whirring between his lips. Little dream-induced moans escape Louis’ throat every so often, and Harry smiles at each and every one of them.

They wake together just a few hours later, all bleary-eyes and smiles and stolen kisses, and laugh when they hear Niall’s distraught voice bellowing a “ _who the fuck left their pants outside_ ” and, yes, Harry could definitely get used to this.

No matter what happens, he’ll definitely be happy with this.


End file.
